The decision, now my mother’s off her feet,
off her food but not, thank god, her rocker,
is for a rota of nephews and nieces to drop in
and keep an eye on her so she’s not alone.
Unshod gypsy horses cropping the grass
of a traffic island in autumn’s last-blown leaves
(from my Uber window) ushers me home
as evening brightens Whitley Hill and Bearley.
‘I left Afghanistan when I was a boy,’
the driver tells me, catching my reflection.
‘I just walked out. I was lucky! A social worker
found me foster parents in Coventry.
They kept alsatians, lovely dogs, and we drank
orangeade on Fridays.’ The house is full.
My sister, her oldest son. A brother or two.
Emmie who proudly tells me she’s nearly three.
I lift her up to see the Stratford trains
or we run around the lawn in stockinged feet.
‘Anothergain!’ she cries. So we run again.
My mother fails and fails. Wheeling her
to bed, I lift her legs under the covers
as she turns to face the wall, little nestling
tucked up in her penguin-pattern blanket.
